Trey In Mournhold, Chapter 3 Options

[treydog]

First, I apologize for the over-long delay in getting back to this story. Job change, severe writer's block, and my usual autumn depression combined to stop my writing cold. Anyway, for those who are still interested, here is the next installment.

T.

Chapter 3

The long struggle against the goblins had left me physically and emotionally spent. So great was my weariness that I would not even think of the purpose that had originally brought me to Mournhold. The Dark Brotherhood were agents of death, mercenaries who killed without honor or remorse, concerned only that they receive their blood money. And, just at the moment, that description hit too close to home for my comfort. Like the goblins, the assassins likely made their lair in the ruins of Old Mournhold, and I could not bear the thought of returning to those spirit-thronged tunnels. Although I was a thief, by definition a creature of darkness, the dark of a moonless night was far different from the unrelieved blackness beneath the city. At least when I crouched upon a rooftop, the air was wholesome- filled with the scents of cooking fires and stable yards- the odors of life in all its glory and simplicity. Under the city, every breath was labored, the air tainted with a miasma of deaths old and new, and thick with the plotting of deaths still to come. What I needed desperately was the light of day and the rumble of humanity going about the business of living. I wanted to wander through the Great Bazaar, acting as if I had nothing in mind beyond seeking a bargain on some exotic piece of art or craft from a far place, a place that had never heard of goblins or assassins.

Before making my way to the marketplace, I washed away the worst stains of my labors at the fountain in the Brindisi Dorom. As I did so, I was not certain that the High Ordinators would not object to my ablutions. In truth, I rather hoped they would make an issue of it- I held no very great love for Almalexia’s version of the Temple at that moment. Other than a few penetrating glances, my impromptu bath drew no reaction though, and I was soon refreshed and on my way. Although the idea of a real bath with hot water and soap tempted me to take a room at the Winged Guar, I was not ready to confine myself indoors just yet. Satisfied that my appearance would no longer cause some concerned citizen to call the guards or the healers, I proceeded to the Great Bazaar, where I frankly acted like a country lout loose in the big city for the first time. There was talk of a play to be performed, and I waited for a few minutes in hopes of seeing such a novelty, but there seemed to be some delay, so I moved on. As I climbed the steps, staring at the shops and plants and people, I became so distracted that I failed to notice a young Dunmer woman until I placed my foot directly in the midst her lunch, which she had set out upon one of the steps. She accepted my profuse apologies with more weariness than grace, and began to gather up the remains of her ruined meal. When I offered to at least pay her the price of a decent dinner at the inn, she merely sighed and said,

“That would be nice, but I really have no time to talk. There’s much work to do… No time for silly fancies like dancing or dinner. Oh, but what I wouldn’t give to meet someone new.”

The way she said it made clear that she was really just thinking out loud rather than trying to interest the bumbling Breton who had just clumsily trodden on her lunch. Still, it seemed that I should at least offer her a sympathetic ear if that was what she needed. She was still fairly young, older than I- perhaps in her 30s- although it is always hard to judge such things among the Elven races. Her eyes were interesting- sad, thoughtful, with a spark of intelligence lurking in their depths. Recalling my own recent travails with employment, I agreed that work could be wearing. She nodded and said,

“Yes, that's right. Believe it or not, I had no intention of working here when I came to Mournhold. It's quite a sob story; are you sure you want to hear it?”

When I signaled my assent, she continued,

“Well, it's mostly my fault, really. My name is Marena Gilnith, and I grew up in a small village in the south of Morrowind. They cared for me a great deal, and only wanted the best for me. But when they arranged my marriage to a wealthy nobleman, I couldn't take it. He was disgusting, and I wanted nothing to do with him. So I ran away, and ended up here in Mournhold. I was convinced that I'd be able to find the man of my dreams. Only, it hasn't worked out that way.”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug and continued,

“I was foolish about it, to be sure. I never considered that I'd need money to survive on my own. I was determined, though, not to go crawling back to the village and beg forgiveness from my parents and that loathsome man. I'd make it on my own, and only then would I contact my parents and let them know where I was. So I started working... and now it's all I do. I never have time to meet anyone. Let me know if you meet any nice, single men.”

It was the sort of request you hear fairly often- usually spoken in jest. But somehow I knew that she spoke from sincere hope, and a part of me responded with equal sincerity. It was as if our lives had followed similar paths, paths that could lead to loneliness and bitterness- if no kind stranger intervened. And so I said,

“Give me a little time, and I will try. Whatever chances, I will meet you here at this same hour in two days’ time.”

Perhaps it would have been wiser to refuse her request or to pretend that it was simply a joke, but it was hard to ignore the unspoken appeal in her eyes. Maybe I felt the need to do something that celebrated life instead of death. Or maybe I responded to the fact that she had confided in me, a stranger. In any event, though I had no idea of how to accomplish the task, I agreed. In truth, I wasn’t certain that I knew what a “good man” was; I definitely knew nothing about finding one. But as I considered more deeply, I realized that much of what I knew about choosing horses could apply to men. You wanted a good temperament, determination that did not shade into stubbornness, intelligence, loyalty… maybe I could manage this after all. Of course, that assumed that I could find any men who sought marriage- I did not really think Marena was interested in the other sort. That made things a bit more difficult- somehow, I doubted that even fabled Mournhold had a shop or market for marriageable men.

[treydog]

I could feel that the time was fast approaching when I must resume my search for the lair of the Dark Brotherhood, but I did want to take a moment to examine the sword Sunel Hlas had presented to me. When I reached my room at the Winged Guar, I removed the wrapping and first examined the external appearance of the sword. It was a huge weapon, one that would require two hands and exceptional strength to wield. The blade was an odd design- one side was saw-toothed and the other was smooth and straight. I next extended my magical senses toward the blade. The aura of the sword was… peculiar. As my hands gripped the hilt, a rage took hold of me, as if all my enemies stood arrayed before me. Just as it seemed certain that the anger would consume me, my emotions underwent a dizzying change. Where I had felt anger, now I felt joy and peace, almost as though my mother had come back to life and called to me. With a convulsive shudder, I forced my hands free of the sword and simply stared at the weapon, sweat standing on my brow and my breath coming in great gasps. As I calmed myself, I thought I understood the strange purpose that had been forged into the blade- it would alternately enrage and calm an enemy who did not resist its enchantment. However, it also seemed to me that its unexpected changes in “personality” might very well drive the wielder insane. With regret, I muffled the artifact in heavy cloth and thrust it under the bed. Perhaps, if I survived my current quest, I would find an appropriate home for the unique sword. But now, it was time to resume the hunt.

However, before I rushed headlong back into the darkness beneath Mournhold, it seemed that it would be wise to develop a strategy. Although the expedient of rushing in and killing them all had the virtue of simplicity, it was perhaps not the best choice. My long struggle against the goblins had taught me more than the fact that I possessed an innate capacity for violence- I had also learned that the key to destroying an army was to remove the leadership. The “soldiers” of the Dark Brotherhood were only my enemies because they had been directed by their master to attack me. Though I had no love for the Dark Brotherhood, I preferred not to have still more blood on my hands. Another point in favor of a stealthy approach was the effect it would have upon the assassins themselves. Like all such organizations, they had come to believe somewhat in their own mythology. Therefore, if someone managed to slip unseen into their midst and kill their leader, that superstition would turn back upon them. They might even feel that it was a message of disfavor from the dark god they worshipped. In any event, the loss of their head man would throw them into disarray and leave me with fewer deaths on my conscience. The immediate problem that I faced was that my training in magic had been limited to alteration instead of illusion. That was a circumstance I would have cause to regret more than once in the years to come. To overcome that lack, I must depend on potions and my ability to move quietly through the shadows. And if all of those things failed, if the Dark Brotherhood sentinels were too alert- then they must needs pay the price, for I still had my skill with a blade. And I was forced to use that skill far sooner than I had planned.

My head filled with ideas for how I would invade the Dark Brotherhood’s lair unseen, I made my way to Great Bazaar, where I hoped to purchase potions or scrolls that would aid me in a stealthy approach. So preoccupied was I, that I was sent sprawling when a robed Dunmer suddenly appeared before me with a flash and a cloud of noxious smoke. The dark elf took no immediate notice of me, but instead proceeded to strut across the cobbles, declaiming in a loud voice and making theatrical gestures. His speech was as follows:

“Greetings, fair citizens of Mournhold! I am the great, renowned, respected, and feared wizard, Ovis Velas! In the coming weeks, you shall see more and more of me, as I bring this city to its knees! But for the moment, allow me to demonstrate my power on one of your hopeless countrymen!”

He then paused and scanned the crowd with eyes that betrayed no hint of sanity… or mercy. His fiery gaze fell upon me and he gestured at me.

“You there! Yes, you, you ugly Breton. Prepare yourself to feel my wrath.”

My initial surprise had passed and I began to doubt the scene that was playing out before me. Surely this was not real- it must be the prelude to one of the plays that were staged here in the city. No doubt this brief scene was a spectacular way to get the attention of the crowd and whet their appetite for more. Thus, rather than respond to the “wizard’s” insult, I simply got back to my feet and spread my hands. My body language was clear- I was inviting him to do his worst. Then I waited expectantly for the usual announcement of when the complete play would be performed. What I received was a magical assault.

The charlatan hurled a series of spells at me that had a number of disagreeable effects. First, he invoked a Grave Curse, which drained my own innate store of magicka. Next came a spell to make me more susceptible to disease. And last, he blasted me with a Damage Health cantrip. Oddly for one who claimed to be a powerful wizard, his spells seemed to have minimal effect upon me. At the time, I believed that was simply a result of my Breton heritage, which provided me with a natural resistance to hostile spells. Still, the spells did hurt, and Ovis showed no sign of stopping after his initial attack. He continued to hurl spell after spell at me, screaming “Die, Breton scum!” the whole time.

As the eldritch energies lashed me, I revised my opinion of what was happening. This was not some preliminary to a drama, but an actual attack. With an oath, I drew my sword and charged the foaming lunatic. His concept of defense against a physical attack was even worse than his offensive spells- my blade took him under the left arm as he raised it to cast a spell. With a groan, he fell dead at my feet. As the guards converged on the scene, a bystander spoke up quickly,

“I saw the whole thing. The dead Dunmer attacked this stranger without provocation. He was only defending himself.”

To me, he added.

“You handled the wizard easily. That was interesting. I expected with all the rumors about how powerful and evil he was, that he would be tougher than he appeared. He did say his name was Velas? You know, there’s a Velas Manor in Godsreach. Perhaps checking it out would clear this up.”

As I recovered from the minor damage Velas had inflicted and cleaned my sword, I wondered what was wrong with this city. Madness seemed to permeate the very stones and buildings. And that same madness then infected the populace. The irony was beyond belief- here I was, trying to acquire supplies that would allow me to avoid more killing, and this madman practically threw himself onto my blade. As to the suggestion that I investigate his house, that seemed like a daft idea. Wizards tended to protect their homes with any number of nasty surprises- and just because the wizard was dead didn’t mean that his traps would be safe. In fact, if he had summoned any dangerous creatures, they would be even more unpredictable now that his control was gone. No, I already was going to have to poke my nose into a place I would have preferred to avoid. There was no need at all for me to stir up still more trouble. Let some other fool risk life and sanity discovering whatever it was the “great” Ovis Velas had left behind.